


redolence

by cirr



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: :0, ??? - Freeform, Banter, Cologne, Fragrances, M/M, Sexual Tension, fighting but not really, jim has terrible taste, oswald is a snob, this whole plot is a wreck but just roll with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirr/pseuds/cirr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>redolence (noun) ; a strong, often agreeable fragrance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	redolence

**Author's Note:**

> wheezes;; hey everyone whats up?? ive literally never published any of my works so. this is new! wowie! i hope you guys all enjoy it at least a little bit qq; 
> 
> note: this is set probably early season two, somewhere, where oswald has his throne but things are getting shaky.
> 
> also a shoutout to @MillicentCordelia who spoke with me on tumblr about the premise for this and stuck the idea so far into my head that i had to write it out! 
> 
> speaking of tumblr, talk to me at shuurima.tumblr.com !! seriously!! message me!!
> 
> also- there are more notes about the actual work in the endnotes, check those out!

This- whatever _this_ was, exactly - had become commonplace.

Weeks would pass without any trace of contact. No visits, no calls- nothing. Hell, sometimes it was _months_ before Oswald heard even a whisper, his only solace resting in the fact that word of Gotham’s finest cop being gunned down had not yet graced newspaper headlines.

And then one day, whenever it so suited his fancy, James Gordon would slink into Oswald’s establishment and ask for a favor, looking both determined and begrudged all at once. Now, normally, this was of no bother to the latter- he did so _love_ proving himself capable- but the situation had become less like a functional business arrangement and more like a considerably one-sided attempt at one. Oswald had played along willingly, guilty of being glad to have any sort of interaction with the officer, but the constant input of effort with no reward had become a source of great irritation for him as of late- what with everything else around him going straight to hell in a handbasket.

Granted, Oswald couldn’t really think of a favor he’d want in return- at least not at present. And, despite having racked up _quite a few_ owed favors over the course of the past few months, he still wasn’t partial to the idea of wasting one just for a brief moment of satisfaction. Above all, he was still a strategist, and he refused to let his thinning patience motivate him to waste something which might prove extremely useful in situations to come. But this reasoning did nothing to help his quickly surging annoyance- only provided him with a reminder to hold himself back and play his cards safely, rather than toss his hand on the floor and topple the entire table in a rage (which is what he might have done otherwise). He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, thin fingers coming to rest at his temple and supply a brief pressure there- a last ditch attempt at relieving some of his stress.

Just moments ago, prompting this overwhelming (and quite unwelcome) analysis of his pent up frustrations, Gabe had appeared in his office to announce that one Jim Gordon was seated at his bar, manilla folder in hand, requesting to see him.

Instead of his normal excitement, or even his bubbling anger, Oswald just feels exhausted.

Moving his hand from his forehead to the surface of the table, he pushes himself up and out of the embellished chair behind his desk, grimacing at the spark of pain flashing up his leg. He was quite good at masking his ailment, but he was alone, and exhausted, and didn’t feel the need to pretend that each fall of his foot wasn’t akin to stepping on ten thousand shards of glass. Rounding his desk, his eyes flick to the small, square bottle of cologne perched on the wooden corner, and despite his mood- or maybe, in part, because of it- he lifts it, pressing a lithe finger to the top of the spritzer. Just once, for good measure- to ensure the pleasant scent hadn’t faded throughout his busy day. That done, he heads out to the club floor, realizing about fifteen steps later that he’d severely underestimated his leg’s stubbornness today- but he’s already in Jim’s line of sight, emerging from one of the side corridors of the club, and it would be pointless to turn and retrieve his cane from the office. As he approaches his guest, he puts on his usual mask, a smile gracing his visage, though it feels as forced as it undoubtedly looks.

“My, _my_ , James Gordon! And in the flesh, too. A pleasure, truly.” Though the words ring true, deep down, even under his current irritations, Oswald cannot help the sarcasm that worms its way into his greeting. Unsurprisingly, it is not lost on Jim, who glowers at the dark haired man as he slides himself into the neighboring barstool.

“You can cut the fake pleasantries, Cobblepot. they aren’t what I came here for.” Jim’s voice, as usual, projects his clear desire to be anywhere but in this club. The detective taps the edge of the folder against the bar top for emphasis, and oswald’s smile tightens even more. James gordon is digging his grave deeper and deeper, and Oswald has no energy to resist his natural instinct to respond with equal hostility.

“No, they never are, are they?” The smile remains plastered across the mobster’s lips, but he lets his disdain for their habits drip clear into his reply. As if to punctuate his distaste, a pale hand moves quickly to snatch the file from Jim’s grasp and flick it open, the latter movement jerky and irate.

Reflexively, Jim moves to snatch it back, but catches himself and settles for clenching his fingers into a fist instead, resting the hand on the bar’s surface. He was going to have to show Oswald the contents of the folder regardless, so attempting to grab it back would be useless. Suddenly, he is forced to realize that his urge to rip the folder from his companion’s thin fingers comes less from an attempt at secrecy and more from a desire to retain some control over the situation. Having Oswald one-up him, even over something as simple as holding a stack of papers, sparks something unsettling within him that he’d rather not analyze too deeply.

Somehow he knows what he’ll find, should he dig.  
  
Thankfully, he has no more time for introspection, as Cobblepot’s voice snaps him back to reality.

“Well, I must say. I do _so_ admire your organization- everything in here is laid out quite clearly. That said- what, exactly, do you need me for?” The folder is placed flat on the bar, the other man’s hands folded properly atop it, shrewd eyes now turned directly on Jim. There’s a lilt to the gangster’s phrasing that Jim can’t quite place, and he scowls- unsure of what he’s implying, but aware it's probably something underhanded.

“I don’t like your tone.” Jim levels Oswald’s piercing gaze with a hardened glare of his own, his voice low and accusing. Something predatory flashes in the green eyes opposing his own, and Jim slightly regrets having opened his mouth at all.

“ _Well_! We all must deal with unpleasantries- for example, _I_ don’t like when my associates develop the nasty habit of taking advantage of my good graces. But, such is life, hm?” A dark grin flashes across his face, replacing the taut, polite smile that had been there moments earlier. His eyes, still fixed pointedly on the man beside him, do not miss the flash of indignation across his face- and Oswald quietly revels in the knowledge he’s struck a nerve.

“I don’t recall you asking anything of me, _yet_.” Jim’s voice is strained when he replies, like he’s trying very hard to keep it at an acceptable volume. This, the obvious tension in his jaw, and how he clenches his fist until his knuckles turn white, all egg Oswald on. He’s in no mood to pull punches.

Oswald leans forward, just a bit, enough to be a noticeable shift, and chooses his words carefully. The wicked smile does not leave his face as he speaks.

“No, I haven’t. Wouldn’t you know, I _am_ actually capable of handling my work without assistance- unlike our brothers and sisters in blue, it seems.” The indignation on Jim’s features switches quickly to pure anger, his entire frame visibly tensing. The movement sends a wave of satisfaction through the man antagonizing him, whose trained eyes do not miss the change in his body language. Oswald is about to go on, elaborate that his resentment actually stemmed from Jim’s uncanny ability to forget he was another _human being_ , but his dramatic pause is interrupted by Jim’s hands moving quickly from the bar to his lapels, wrenching him up out of the chair in a matter of seconds.

As much as he wants to, Oswald can’t control the surprise clear in his face. Or, more importantly, his rapidly increasing pulse. He can, however, recover quickly from the former slipup- jutting his chin out defiantly, correcting his gaze into something more alert and challenging.

His heart, however, still pounds. Loudly. He wills himself to ignore it- and though he succeeds, he focuses so hard on it that the beginning of Jim’s reply is entirely lost to his ears. Not that it really mattered much, anyway- at least not in the grand scheme of things.

“- lot of nerve, saying that, when you have all your _lackeys_ do your dirty work for you-” is what Oswald hears as he tunes back in, and despite the fact that he was currently being manhandled, he still finds the time to cut Jim off and run his mouth some more.

“Oh, _please_ , Jim. Spare me. You know better than anyone that I at least have the gall to handle my own matters. It’s why you can’t _stand_ me- if I’d never laid a hand on anyone I’m sure you’d treat me much differently-” Now it’s his turn to be cut off, the grip on the front of his expensive suit tightening a fraction before he’s, somehow, pulled even closer- they’re practically nose to nose, and if Oswald wasn’t distracted before, he certainly is now.

There can’t be more than two inches between them. At some point, though he’s not sure exactly when, Oswald’s thin fingers had clamped themselves around Jim’s wrists, even though he’d not done much in the way of trying to get the offending hands off of himself. Jim’s going on again, something about how _no, he’d treat him exactly the same, because pulling the strings is just as bad as doing it yourself_ , but Oswald is fighting distraction again and damn it, this happens _every **single**_ time-

Just as he’s starting to come back to himself, still not entirely listening to Jim’s continuous condemning of his lifestyle, he realizes that he’s close enough to smell Jim’s cologne.

And honestly, it smells _awful_.

Not awful in a sense that the actual scent is bad- Oswald assumes it was meant to be some sort of a mint concoction- but it was cheap. Obviously so. And god, it was _completely_ overwhelming ( _not_ in the debatably good way) now that he was close enough to pick up on it. He must pull a face, because Jim pauses his speech for a moment, and that moment is all Oswald really needs to blurt out his internal thoughts without any consideration of possible consequence. Hooray, impulse control.

“What the _hell_ are you wearing?”

It takes Jim a moment to answer- he almost looks taken aback. Which was understandable, seeing as screaming matches about moral ideals hardly ever segued into _what are you wearing_ , but here they are.

“What?” His tone, though still flickering with sparks of anger, reveals his surprise and confusion quite clearly. Oswald supposes there’s no going back now- he’s made his bed. Time to lie in it.

“Your- the- the _cologne_ , if you can even call it that. It smells horrific.”

Jim blinks once, twice, three times at the elaboration before finally noticing just how close they are- and lets go of the smaller man’s lapels as if they’d just burst into flames. Oswald drops back into his seat unceremoniously, hands quickly flying to smooth the rustled fabric down. He huffs, looks back up at Jim, who has yet to take his seat again, and notices he still seems to be processing the little non-sequitur. He clears his throat. Blue eyes snap back to him before the noise is even gone. He seems to remember what he came for.

“Just look over the damn file, Cobblepot. Call me if you can help. If not, I don’t care. Either way, send someone to bring it back. I don’t want you keeping all those papers.” Oswald can tell there was meant to be a threat in that last bit, but Jim still sounds preoccupied as he turns and storms out of the club.

Green eyes follow him the entire way, even linger a moment after the heavy door swings shut, before they turn to Gabe, who had been standing a few yards away through the entire ordeal. He finds himself throwing a few scolding words at his bodyguard, just to ease some of his own irritation. He could take it. He wouldn’t be working for him otherwise.

“So, you thought it fine to just stand idly by as I was threatened, in my own bar, _right in front of you_?” The words sound more exasperated than intimidating, and Gabe doesn’t even flinch, just looks back at him with raised brows.

“No offense, boss, but I didn’t think my steppin’ in was needed. He acts like that practically every time he comes here, but he ain’t never really laid a hand on you. Figured if he ever was gonna, it woulda happened by now.”

The big man shrugs, and Oswald could push it, still criticize him for his inaction, but he knew he’d be grasping at straws then. Gabe was right, and as much as his reaction angers himself, he can’t help but feel a little warm as he considers the fact that, at least thus far, James Gordon had only ever presented him with empty, impulsive threats. To date, he was unable to bring himself to actually, physically harm him. There were probably a million reasons for this- but Oswald doesn’t need to consider them. Doesn’t want to. The fact of the matter is enough for him. He gathers the thick file from the bar and stands, bracing himself for a moment against the barstool.

“Just watch the door. I’ll be in my office until we open. Should anyone _else_ decide to drop by before then, consult me before you let them in.”

“Sure thing, boss. Anything else needs doing before opening?”

So considerate. Oswald almost feels bad about nitpicking him- almost. If there had been any actual sting behind his words, he probably would have felt a little guilty, but he wasn’t out for blood and it seemed mutually understood that his complaints had been full of hot air.

“Just make sure the bar is well stocked. If we’re low on anything, go to the storeroom, but make sure you mark what you’ve replaced on the inventory list.” Gabe never failed to attend to procedure, he knew, but better safe than sorry. The other man nods, heading quietly behind the bar, and Oswald shuffles back to his office, mentally thanking himself for choosing one of the first floor rooms for his quarters.

The mobster could brood about it all day, run over the countless reasons he was infuriated with James Gordon, but as the sun went down he still found himself at his desk, laboring over the file he’d been given. Reading- _really_ reading, not just glancing over-, analyzing, making calls, penning organized notes and lists of his best information. The grandfather clock at the corner of his office chimes, the sound low and pleasant to his ears, warning him that the club would be opening soon. Oswald leans back in his chair for a moment of respite, once again with his fingers pressed to his temples, trying to recall any other tidbits about the man in the file. Convinced everything of importance had been listed, he opens his eyes and lets his gaze wander around the room before they fix back on the file. He closes the folder with a surprising gentleness, setting his pen atop it. It would be sent back in the morning, probably by Gabe, to be left on the detective’s desk.

Speaking of desks, his own was becoming quite cluttered. He still had a few moments before he needed to be present on the floor, and so he took it upon himself to neaten up the dark wooden surface. A few stray pens placed back in their embellished holder, papers neatened into a passable pile and set apart from Jim’s file. As he looks over his workspace again, his gaze fixes, for the second time today, on the small bottle of fragrance tucked among his other desk ornaments.

An idea blossoms, the thought manifesting itself with the appearance of a wide grin and a sly glint in green eyes. Oswald lets out a giddy chirp of a laugh, forever entertained by his own capacity for underhanded humour.

 _What_ an idea.

**Author's Note:**

> *non-sequitur: a latin phrase describing a statement that has no logical relation to those that came before it.
> 
> i spent more time than i'd care to admit looking up actual AXE scents to give myself an accurate basis for this, and i decided that the Black Chill line was pretty much what i was envisioning Jim to be wearing! to quote the site, its advertised as including "mint, cedar, and sandalwood" scents, and could actually smell wonderful to the average person for all i know! but oswald is a total snob and so he has had Enough.


End file.
